


King and the Wolfheart

by ryukoishida



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, fae king!Gieve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: “Your kind refers to me as a fae,” he lets go of Isfan’s arm, “and I have domain over the forest and all that dwells within, so that makes me the lord of the fae realm, I suppose?”





	King and the Wolfheart

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by jove-bluh’s [beautiful king!Gieve](https://ryukoishida.tumblr.com/post/162318325449/jove-bluh-hilmessenki-replied-to-your). Please don’t expect quality; I whipped this up pretty quickly.

Isfan doesn’t know how many days and nights have passed since he’s been separated from his troops.

 

It’s hard to discern time within the thick forest where neither the violent glare of the sun nor the gentle glow of the moon can enter through the dense foliage above his head.

 

This expedition, like many others before, is pointless; Isfan knows it, his men knows it, the majority of the court knows it. The entire affair is a waste of money and manpower, but Andragoras is nothing if not strong-willed — and that’s just a polite way to say that the king is bull-headed, Isfan thinks, his sense of duty and responsibility dwindling as he pushes on aimlessly, endlessly, in this lush, green maze — and he would hear nothing that sounds remotely like opposition.

 

The Heart of Forest, they call it. There have been many names and tales attached to the mythical source of power, but most people with any good sense and logic would immediately deem it as just that: a myth.

 

Yet, the ruler of Pars will stop at nothing to possess this power, even going as far as to send troops after troops to search for it. Most have returned to the capital empty-handed; others have come back with more clues that lead to nowhere; the rest — though only a small portion in the bigger picture — never even made it back.

 

As Isfan drags his sore and battered body over to the nearest tree and leans heavily against the trunk to take a brief rest, he inspects the injury on his upper arm that he has hastily bandaged with torn pieces of cloth. Blood is still seeping out.

 

A beast has been chasing after him, and Isfan has been too weak to fight back, and when it finally latches onto his arm, teeth sinking into flesh as easily as if his muscles and sinews are made of soft butter, and Isfan thinks that this is it, an arrow shoots out from the shadows, hitting the beast directly between the eyes.

 

He has been lucky to run into another human being, for what else can shoot so accurately and efficiently with the purpose of rescuing him?

 

But when he calls out, only the forest whispers back. And so he keeps going.

 

A twig snaps to his left, and topaz eyes immediately train towards the direction of where the sound comes from.

 

“Who’s there?” he snarls, his hand already grabbing the only weapon he has left — a small hunting knife.

 

Rustling of leaves. Birds calling in the distance. Near silence.

 

“I’m not in the mood for games,” Isfan warns, the steel of his knife gleaming menacingly, “Either you come out from the shadows this instant, or I hunt you down myself.”

 

Muted footsteps. Bare feet on soft soil.

 

Then a man is emerging from the thickets, his steps as graceful as a dancer and the way he carries himself majestic and proud. _A man or a god?_ Isfan is trying to decide, his back stiffening against the tree as the figure keeps walking towards him; he holds his weapon close to his chest, eyes wary.

 

The soldier in him ignores the aches and exhaustion for the moment, and after making a quick assessment, Isfan decides that this stranger is someone he definitely should not cross. Though he’s smaller in stature, the man gives off a kind of aura that makes Isfan’s instinct claw in warning, but the ethereal beauty emanating not only from the physical aspect but also the smallest of his gestures is what makes even an experienced military leader like himself halt for a moment.

 

He cannot look away from the turquoise of his eyes — clear, brilliant, and more dangerous than any seas — a simple silver crown laced with white and lilac blossoms sits lopsided over dark tresses that flow over his slender shoulders veiled in a long shawl of green-gold that trails behind him with the softest sigh of a breeze, the crooked smile that holds a thousand secrets and promises, and long fingers playing nonchalantly with the feathered tips of an arrow stored in a quiver strapped to his waist.

 

“Are you certain you’re in any shape to cause me harm, child of man?” he speaks at last, voice melodic and mischievous, almost mocking.

 

“Try me,” Isfan bites out, his grasp on the knife tightening, causing the pain from his injury to flare up in warm, sharp waves.

 

He’s tired, he’s hungry, he’s in pain, and he wants to know who this man is. Courtesy be damned.

 

Isfan is not the most patient man; in fact, some would call him hot-headed and impulsive. Clearly, this stranger has no idea who he’s dealing with.

 

“Is that the proper way to speak to your savior?”

 

‘Savior?’ Isfan blinks, baffled by the thought, but before he can think any further, the man takes another step forward.

 

“Don’t,” he warns again, waving his knife in front of himself with a threatening swing.

 

The man laughs, the rumble simultaneously smoky and chilling.

 

“If I had wanted to hurt you, I would have let the beast have its way with you,” he says, grinning with amusement, and then he nods in the direction of Isfan’s injured arm, “Look, you’re bleeding.”

 

He glances down and finally notices that the blood has long seeped through his make-shift bandages and is now gradually flowing down his arm in rivulets of dirt and crimson. Isfan is momentarily distracted by his injury that he hasn’t noticed the man has already wandered over, close enough to touch, so when Isfan suddenly senses his presence, it’s already too late for him to move away.

 

“What are you—” Isfan starts when the man lifts up his arm gently to inspect the wound, his brows puckering slightly at the sight. The knight attempts to pull his arm away, which only makes him hiss in agony from the motion, yet despite the man’s seemingly frail stature at first glance, his grip is surprisingly strong, and Isfan finds that it’s hopeless for him to struggle, so he stops, grudgingly allowing the stranger to keep holding onto his arm.  

 

“I’m trying to help you,” he simply says, eyes calmly surveying the damage.

 

The knife falls at their feet, clattering dully on the soil, and neither reacts to this.

 

After removing the mess of bloody bandages and revealing puncture wounds in the shape of teeth marks, Isfan observes the man carefully as he raises up his other hand, palm open and hovering slightly over the worst of the injury.

 

A pale green glow begins to form in the center of his palm, and where the light touches Isfan’s skin, he feels a warm trail spreading like a pleasant, viscous syrup that seeps into his pores, invigorating the bones, vessels, and muscles beneath. The teeth marks disappear one by one, the open flesh closing over clumped blood and torn skin until it returns into the same tanned shade like the rest of his body, until all that’s left are traces of dried blood.

 

The man smiles with quiet satisfaction at his own handiwork, and glances up when Isfan finally locates his voice after the initial shock.

 

“What exactly… are you?”  

 

“Your kind refers to me as a fae,” he lets go of Isfan’s arm, “and I have domain over the forest and all that dwells within, so that makes me the lord of the fae realm, I suppose?”  

 

Isfan nods once, signaling his understanding; his cheeks flush lightly when he remembers the impolite tone with which he’s spoken to the fae lord earlier. “And what name shall I call your lordship?”

 

“So you _are_ capable of speaking with civility after all,” he teases, and chuckles when Isfan’s face turns a darker shade of pink, “you can call me Gieve — just Gieve.

 

“And now, I believe it’s my turn to ask the questions,” Gieve doesn’t give the knight a chance to interrupt and continues, curiosity making his eyes darker, “what is it that you and your men are searching for?”

 

Gieve can begin guessing; after all, humans are simple creatures that are driven by a few aspirations. There are only several things that would make humans passionate and illogical: love, money, power, immortality.

 

Still, he wants to hear it from this particular human’s mouth, especially when Isfan looks a bit uneasy in response to his question.

 

But Gieve has saved him — not once but twice — and Isfan is nothing if not one who repays his debts with genuine gratitude. It won’t harm anybody, Isfan tries to convince himself, and perhaps Gieve will be able to give him useful information in exchange for his honesty. Slowly, he starts to tell the fae lord about the Parsian people’s endless journey in search of a mythical power all due to one man’s selfish desire.

 

After hearing Isfan’s story, a smile of understanding and dark humour curves along the fae lord’s lips. The knight looks at him with a questioning gaze, though he doesn’t dare ask the meaning behind that haunting expression.

 

Gieve replies the silent question anyway, “What your king seeks is this.”

 

At first, Isfan doesn’t quite understand, for Gieve has closed his eyes and places two hands over the centre of his chest like he’s praying. When he exhales, flowers ride on his breaths and his upper body begins to exude the same glow as when Gieve was healing him before. A moment later, the fae lord opens his eyes and draws his arms down to reveal his burning heart: the forest’s heart, thrumming with life and vitality enough to fuel the seasons, the trees and flowers and nutrients in the soil.

 

This is the power that Andragoras wants to acquire for his own use, and Gieve is the guardian — the soul — of it.

 

“Why… why would you tell me? Aren’t you afraid I’d bring back an entire army to take you to the king?” Isfan’s voice is trembling, even as the glaucous light subsides until the coolness of the forest’s shadows returns.

 

“You’re a brute…” Gieve begins, and laughs when Isfan gives him a look, “but you are not a bad man.”

 

“How can you tell?”  

 

“Don’t underestimate my ability to appraise one’s character simply because I rarely concern myself with humans. I am centuries old,” Gieve reminds him with a lopsided grin before continuing in a milder tone, a hint of melancholy subtle but present, “It has been entertaining to watch you stumble around in my playground, but your people are worried, so as unwilling as I am to let you go, I must send you home now.”

 

Gieve is about to lead the way when the knight does something unexpected.

 

Under Gieve’s startled gaze, Isfan kneels on one knee before the fae lord, head lowered in respect, and takes his hand — star-pale, bones and joints elegantly shaped — into his own, roughened from war and scars. He stares up at the fae with a solemn look to his topaz eyes, “Your lordship has saved me from a wretched beast and healed my wounds, and I sincerely thank you. If I can be of any service to you in the future, you need only to summon me.”

 

“Your name, child of man?”

 

“Isfan.”

 

The knight lowers his head until his forehead touches the back of Gieve’s hand, the contact a pledge of fealty, a promise of reunion.


End file.
